Tuesday, July 24, 2012

i hunt & gather great vintage,
searching for beautiful old things whispering histories.
wear patterns, patina, and imperfections give each piece a story worth telling.
in the hours between, i'm tucked away in my studio,
creating little creatures with their own personalities.
it's a slow form of people watching, every stitch creates a whole new expression.
it's a small, barefoot life
and i wouldn't have it any other way.

Monday, July 23, 2012

I fell asleep and asleep again.I was asleep in sleep, the empty bladder of sleep swaying a hammock of truth, which was not the truth.My body burned a landing strip, a field of moths gathered as pigskin kites with low wing wisps,the littered light of communion. The body of Christ fell upon me in pieces, sails of Icarus scallops with air like lungs below the crucifixbleating starry night.I fought that kiss,a torture that raises epidermal hairs, antennae turning dream’s correspondence into the samehuman-shaped facesthat look back into us. The iris, the lips.We barter with shadows an inner abyss,our deep-nosed roses divingto cradle the taste of fire, the falling into an empty bladder of sleep.I am jealous of life.I am life’s custodial emission.If you listen,an avocado tastes like timehas survived the telegram and correspondswith sands that build technical vertebrae between us;we’re shaped the same as spinal grenades.The material sign of safety pins fastens survival as an open mouth gash, a tiny blood seed of beneficial numbness unto all that exists. Awake, the artist blooms at the Hotel du Day:we rose and moved arounda room painted midnight with food from our resting hymns. Every body rends his own fairytale in fault lines. We sketch such horizons, bodies with mothsmossing life on heated surfaces,lips that line space where our inner eyes green and hollow the skies for the bruise of purple destruction. Pull the cord now, re-live atomic bomb huesas photograph, not landscape, the world exclaims. And so we exist next – I could touch the entire blue earth with my mind’s swinging wings, if by fragility our suspended skyblew into the bulb of the surviving universe.